


Deception

by mystivy



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystivy/pseuds/mystivy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer 2007 to Summer 2008, and everything changes for Rafael Nadal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a moonlit night in Porto Cristo when he held her in his arms and lowered his head to kiss her, that sense of inevitability flooding his senses the way it does before a kiss, a smile on his mouth ready to press to hers. Just as his eyes closed, he felt her hand against his chest.

“Wait,” she said. “Wait.”

He frowned, confused. Waves lapped at the beach and he heard the sounds of the party, bubbling voices and a backbeat spilling over the dunes from the beach house. “What is it?” he asked softly, his hand in her hair, the other still firmly about her waist. He felt her breasts rise against him when she breathed.

“You…” she hesitated. She looked puzzled and her eyes shone in the moonlight. “This is still what you want?”

He shook his head, half laughing with confusion. “Yes,” he said. “Yes of course, this is what I want. I want you, no?” He traced the shape of her cheekbone with his thumb.

Her hand remained splayed against his chest, just above his heart; he felt her fingertips tense against him. “You want me,” she repeated. She looked away, looked at her hand against his shirt, looked out to the sea. “What about Moya, Rafa?” she said, her eyes finding his once more. “Your Moyini?”

He froze, his heart a sudden pounding in his chest. He instinctively took his hands from her, watched her face fall as he stepped backwards, involuntarily, one step, two. He was three steps away before he could stop himself, back to the rocks, breath heaving in his chest. “What?” was all he could say through a constricted throat.

She came towards him again, her hand on his arm, her eyes soft in the hard moonlight. “It’s okay, Rafa,” she said gently. “It’s okay. I don’t ask because I want to intrude, but because I don’t want…”

He looked at her, waiting. He felt his eyes hard, black, fierce in his face. He felt numb. He felt trapped, felt his mind searching for ways to flee.

“I don’t want to be hurt, you know?” she said, looking away again. Her hand dropped from his arm. She pressed her fingers to her mouth. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, almost hiding her face from him.

He could not make sense of the turmoil in his head, the panic in his chest, the habitual sense of his heart clamping down, refusing to show itself to anyone. Even her, even the girl he had known for years, lovely Xisca. Words would not form in his mouth.

“There’s a thin line between discretion and deception, Rafa,” she whispered. She leaned against the rock beside him. “Every time you kiss me, you cross the line and I get hurt.”

He looked at her, hunched and lonely, so far from him now in so little time. “Best not to kiss you, then,” he whispered tightly. At first he did not know that she heard, until he saw her shoulders rise and fall in a sigh.

“I’m not asking you to… I don’t know. Give it away.” She looked up at him. “Just to trust me. Why not? I already know.”

He felt his jaw clench as he turned towards her and leaned in close. “You don’t know anything,” he said. “You know nothing about it.” He spoke through gritted teeth.

“Rafa!” she said, desperation creeping into her voice. “It doesn’t matter to me! I just hate you lying to me. I hate that. If you lie to me, I have nothing.”

He controlled his breath, forced his jaws and his fists to unclench. He had to understand that much; it would be inhuman not to. “It’s not lying,” he said, flatly. He sighed with impatience. The sounds of the party seemed quieter now, the music softer. He looked across the water, along the path of the moon. “Some things are mine,” he said, quietly. “For no one else. It’s not lying.”

“Whatever you want to call it. I can’t be with you unless I know you, and I can’t know you unless you tell me these things.” Her fingers traced shapes over the rock, close to his arm but not quite touching. He did not know if she wrote or if she drew or if there was no meaning at all.

He stayed silent for the beat of a wave, of two, of three. He felt the words inside, describing that first time he kissed Carlos Moya with the playstation controls still in his hand, and Carlos pushed him back in surprise until finally he acquiesced. He felt Moya’s hands against his skin and his shoulders against the carpet, he heard the tinny playstation music, looping for as long as it took. He felt his throat tighten at the thought of telling her, of speaking these words, telling her the excitement he felt, the long hours of anticipation that had bubbled over in those minutes. The strength of a man’s body against his, the feel of a man’s stubble, the taste of his mouth. The words died long before they reached his throat. “Whether you know or don’t know, I am not a different person,” he said, his voice low and rough.

“Your parents are right,” she said quietly. “You keep everything bottled up inside. It’s not good for you.” She smiled sadly. “Not good for me.” She hit the rock softly with her fist. “You know, I’m going back inside. I think people are leaving.”

Rafa pushed his hair out of his face. “Xisca,” he said, but he did not know what else to say. Silence filled up between them, the sounds of the sea, sibilant and forever. She turned away.

“I would not have hurt you,” he called after her as she walked back towards the path to the beach house.

She turned, her eyes wet in the moonlight. “You already did, Rafa,” she said, before disappearing into the shadow of the dunes.

He stayed, just a few minutes, and watched the lap of the waves on the beach. His back was to the rocks still, and he bent down to the sand, running it between his fingers, light and soft and still warm underneath from the baking heat of the day. He thought of Moya and that one time, that one time in the hotel room in Paris when he was high on winning the Roland Garros semis on his way to his second slam. About to meet Roger Federer in the final, and looking back now, maybe that had something to do with it. Something to do with the lightness in his head, the feeling that his heart would burst, the way he reached for Moya as if it was natural, normal, as if they always ended up naked together on the hotel carpet.

That was one year and three months ago. It hadn’t happened since.

 

New York, and the evening was sultry. A month after the beach, but she came anyway; Toni told him how it would be and, as usual, so it was.

“What are you doing here, still with me, Xisca?” he asked her as they got ready to leave for dinner. They shared a bed, but there was a line down the centre that neither crossed.

“You know why I am here,” she replied, refusing to catch his eyes. She smoothed out her dress with the palms of her hands, checking her make up in the mirror.

“No,” he said flatly. “I don’t.”

“You tell me you are the same, right?” she said. “You tell me I don’t need to know. So I’m here, and I think maybe you’re right. Maybe I was wrong to say that you lie.”

“Oh yes?” he said, quietly. He looked at her, his face as serene as ever, his eyes dark and challenging. “Then how come this now feels like a lie?”

She looked at him in silence. She had nothing to say.

 

He saw Roger enter the practice courts with Mirka, walking side by side, taking their steps in time. They both looked tanned after a summer in Dubai, brisk and businesslike as they walked through the New York heat. Sometimes it physically hurt him to see them together, the breath knocked out of him by their companionable unity, the sense of oneness surrounding them always.

He lost too early in the US, pain shooting from his knees up to his hips. He limped off court to the sound of thousands of voices echoing hollowly in his ears. He sat for a long while on the bench in the locker room, head in his hands, a towel covering his face.

On the plane to Madrid, he stretched out his seat as far as it would go and eased the strain on his legs. He slept and dreamt vaguely, the sound of the engines suffusing his subconscious. When he woke he knew Roger had been present in his dreams, though he could remember nothing else.

 

Rafa watched the final of the US Open from Porto Cristo; watched Roger win, black in the afternoon, smiling at thousands after three sets. A month later he watched him leave Madrid from the hotel lobby, the elevator doors opening just as Roger reached the main door of the hotel. Rafa saw his eyes downcast as he left, a glance thrown back over his shoulder, a small smile, little more than pressing his lips together, and then he was gone. Twelve days after that, he watched Roger win Basel from his hotel room in Madrid, and then watched him lose in Paris from his couch in Manacor. The season sped by and he felt as if he had seen Roger more on the screen than in the locker room.

Until they reached Shanghai. It began at the welcome ceremony, a glance from Roger as he passed by, applauding and smiling up at him from his seat on the podium. Something in his eyes, Rafa saw but could not name. Later, at the reception, Roger found him and they talked for an hour. No one interrupted because Roger did not take his eyes from Rafa’s face. Rafa heard the hubbub of conversation as something peripheral to his senses, even though it was all around. Roger was all he saw.

It was the same as the week went by: Roger seemed to find him when he practiced, when he sat in the players’ lounge, when he wandered through the lobby of the hotel. And every time, he would stop and talk, touching his arm, unabashed if they stood close in the elevator or when Rafa bumped into him on his way to the showers. It was the first time he had ever felt self-conscious naked in the locker room. Roger did not even seem to notice.

And then, after the semi-final, all disappointment dissipated when Roger was there, laughing, while he kicked the ball around. “You’re better than Maradona!” he said, and it rang in Rafa’s ears for hours after. He left Shangai with regrets, but less acute than they might have been.

 

The new season came as a welcome change. Even the final at Chennai could not dampen his enthusiasm for the coming year; he did not know if it was the tennis he was looking forward to, or seeing Roger again. He did not know, that is, until he reached Melbourne and saw Roger in the tennis centre. Roger stood under an umbrella in the outdoor area of the players’ lounge, a frown on his face as he tried to block the sunlight from his phone as he tried to text. He saw Roger press send, and felt his own phone buzz. He flipped it open.

“Are you in Melbourne yet?” it read.

Rafa grinned and made his way over to Roger, standing just behind him before replying. “Yes,” he said.

Roger turned, smiling before he even saw Rafa’s face.

And so it went. Roger seemed to seek his company, always somehow when Mirka was elsewhere. If it were not for his free and easy manner, Rafa might have allowed himself to hope, but as it was, he considered Roger’s eyes too clear, his smile too friendly, devoid of the feelings that Rafa felt simmering in his own eyes, his own smile. Nevertheless, he felt happy under the Australian sun. He felt at home on the courts, felt in control of his game, felt secure.

And then he lost to Tsonga. He did not see Roger after the match, and felt more crushed because of it. He felt thoroughly beaten, body and soul, and a sight of him might have lifted Rafa’s spirits, enough to make such a loss fade. But Roger was not there. Rafa packed his things with a dark sense, a weight on his shoulders. He did not care that the only flight out of Melbourne was economy class. He didn’t need to stretch out his legs to ease the pain. It wasn’t that kind of pain.

He thought he would see Roger in Dubai, but between the promotional work and Roger’s early exit, he did not. He waited for another text, a call, anything, since he was in Roger’s second home, but none came. He saw the footage of Roger leaving the court over and over again during the week in Dubai, but that was as close as they came. Once more reduced to seeing Roger on a screen, nowhere closer. Rafa played his heart out, something of his desperation fuelling him to the quarterfinals, but then he had nothing more. He was outplayed and done in. Once more a flight to Mallorca, a sense of emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Moments stretched out too long until Indian Wells; time itself seemed to defeat him.

 

It was in Manacor that Rafa first felt Roger’s absence like a physical thing; though he had never touched him, he felt as if he had. He felt as if he knew intimately the feeling of Roger’s skin, upon which he imagined pressing kisses in crisscrossing lines until he had mapped every centimetre. He felt that he knew the shape of Roger’s muscles under his hands, the planes of his back, the curve of his thighs, and Rafa could feel his hips settle between Roger’s legs and their cocks press together in the heat between them. He knew the taste of Roger’s mouth and the sound he made when Rafa buried himself inside, a sound muffled by Rafa’s own mouth and tongue and lips and desperate breath that panted short and fast. He knew the look on Roger’s face when he came.

And yet he did not, and every time he thought of the man he experienced a jarring double vision: the Roger of his deepest dreams and the Roger of reality, the one who clapped him on the back, who hugged him at the net, who smiled and then looked away with eyes as clear as a summer sky. No dreams clouded Roger’s vision. And so Rafa pushed the dreams aside, did not allow them to surface at all during the day while he trained with his uncle and ate with his family and watched television with his friends. Not until he lay alone in the dark, body wrung out from training but drowsily aroused, did he allow images of Roger to coalesce in his mind: Roger’s cock in his mouth, his body spread out and gasping; Roger’s face buried in the pillow, pushing back into Rafa’s thrusts; Rafa himself with Roger inside him, face to face, slowly making love. This last was the image that had him coming in his own hand.

Afterwards he felt empty and aching, worse than before.

 

The feeling did not seem to dissipate, and he felt it still when he reached Indian Wells. The wind was hot across the desert and there was dust in the air. In the walk between the air conditioning of the car and that of the tennis centre, he smelled it, felt it on his tongue. He wondered if Roger was here yet.

He was. Rafa heard his voice in the locker room before he saw him, maintaining a conversation in German with Stan Wawrinka. Stan looked as though he had come off the practice courts already, but Roger was just getting ready, pulling on a shirt just as Rafa came around the lockers.

Roger’s face broke into a smile. “Hey, Raf,” he said.

Rafa nodded in reply, dipping his head while he put down his racket bag to hide his smile. When he looked up again, Roger seemed to have seen it anyway. Stan had drifted away, their conversation apparently over.

Roger took a seat on the bench right by Rafa’s racket bag, one leg folded up in front of him, as if they’d already been talking for hours.

They spoke of de Villiers while Rafa changed, and while they spoke, he thought he felt Roger’s eyes sweep over him now and then, thought he felt their path on his skin. He told himself he imagined it, but did not shrug off the sensation. When Roger said goodbye, Rafa could not tell if his fingertips really remained on the small of his back for longer than he might have anticipated, or if the feeling was a product of his imagination.

 

He saw photos from Indian Wells on the internet. He remembered the moment; Roger was leaving the practice courts while Rafa rested on a bench. The sun was beating down, soaking into his skin, and he felt loose and warm, ready to play. Roger stopped on the way back to the tennis centre while Mirka walked on, seemingly oblivious.

“Hey Raf,” said Roger with his customary ease.

Rafa thought there was something collusive in Roger’s eyes, but dismissed the idea. “Hi, Rogi,” he replied.

They chatted for a while about the courts, the hotels, the clear blue sky, and Rafa did not allow his eyes to wander while Roger changed his shirt, though later it occurred to him as odd to change shirt before he had showered. They were momentarily interrupted when Roger saw someone snapping photographs. He seemed overly irritated, but Rafa put it down to too much time in the eye of the media. He felt much the same.

Later, when he saw the photos, the scene struck Rafa as somehow more intimate. Roger’s eyes fixed on him, Roger’s face when he turned to the camera, angry at the intrusion. For a moment, it seemed to Rafa that he was looking at a world that might be, an eventuality in which he and Roger really were as close at it appeared. And suddenly all the minor pleasures he found in Roger’s attention seemed empty in comparison. Rafa turned from the computer screen with a hollow sensation in his chest, and it did not leave him for days.

 

Roger was still in Miami the night of Rafa’s semifinal. It was unexpected; he stood in the locker room when Rafa came out of the shower, their eyes meeting with Roger’s customary clarity and a rush of desire through Rafa’s veins.

“I watched the match at the hotel,” said Roger. “But I had to come here to tell you, you played amazing today. This tournament.”

Rafa tightened the towel around his hips. Usually he didn’t bother with a towel at all, but he felt vulnerable at this moment, in the silence of the locker room, and he was glad he had it. It was something, however flimsy, between him and the rest of the room. Between him and Roger. “Thank you,” he said. He pushed his hair back behind his ears, a nervous gesture.

Roger took a step towards him. “You looked amazing out there.” His voice was low and quiet, almost intimate in the echoing room.

Rafa shrugged. The intensity in Roger’s eyes was almost too much to look at. He shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry about your match yesterday,” he said.

Roger’s face reflected nothing, just the low light in his eyes and the small smile remaining on his lips. “I’ve already forgotten it,” he said, casually, and Rafa believed it. “Rafa,” continued Roger, but then he stopped abruptly, as if biting back what he intended to say.

“What?” said Rafa, curious.

Roger looked at him for a moment more, a slight frown on his features, now, and something uncertain in his eyes. He seemed unsettled. “Nothing,” he said, half laughing, laughter directed wryly at himself. There was something in his eyes like fascination, as if waiting for the next move and waiting for Rafa to make it.

“So,” said Rafa, instead. “You are still in Miami?”

Roger shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “Plane’s not ready until tomorrow. And…” Again he trailed away, frustratingly, his lower lip half bitten between his teeth.

“And?” asked Rafa.

“And I wanted to see you play,” he said. “I love watching you play like this, Rafa. You’re on fire, you’re so good to watch. To look at.” He took a step towards Rafa, and his eyes still had that wide open gaze that seemed to catch the low glow of the lights. Rafa did not know whether to hold that gaze or to look away, but suddenly he had no choice and Roger was standing closer and closer, until there was only inches between them, eye to eye.

When Roger first kissed him, it was slow, gentle, but not hesitant. He felt Roger’s body pressed against his skin, his hands on his arms, brushing gently over his lower back, sweeping over his shoulders till Roger was holding his face. Rafa resisted at first; shock, surprise freezing his instinct to respond.

Roger pulled back, not far, just a breath from Rafa’s mouth. “Just kiss me, Rafa,” he said.

That was all it took. A strength overtook Rafa, a wave of desire. He wrapped his arms around Roger’s body and kissed him deeply, mouth open and hot and hungry. They hit the shower wall with a wet slap, Rafa’s back against the tiles, coming together with a shock through his electrified skin. Roger’s mouth was open on is, his searching tongue seeking Rafa’s taste, and Rafa reacting with equal vigour. Roger tasted exactly as he imagined and at the same time nothing like; he was precise, determined, and yet uncontrolled, an unexpected contradiction. Rafa slid his hands over Roger’s narrow waist, up towards his broad chest and down again to encompass his hips, his ass, shorts like nothing and yet so much in his palms. He pressed against the small of Roger’s back, bringing them hard together, uncompromising in the strength of his arms. Small, desperate sounds came from Roger’s mouth, muffled by Rafa’s kisses.

“Rogi,” he breathed, and felt Roger’s pace quicken, his hips pressing into Rafa’s till he could feel his hardness, his readiness, thickly jutting against his own swelling cock.

“Rafa,” whispered Roger in return, into his mouth, his breath a taste against Rafa’s tongue. “I’ve thought of you, I’ve watched you for so long,” he said, his body melting against Rafa’s as his hands wound their way below Rafa’s towel, loosening it and letting it fall to the ground. He grasped Rafa’s cock in his hand, coaxing it to full hardness, running his thumb over the head and stroking gently.

“I didn’t…” gasped Rafa, his hips jerking involuntarily. “I didn’t know. I didn’t see you.” He drew Roger’s shirt over his head and threw it to the ground. “I didn’t know,” he said again, deep in the curve of Roger’s neck, feeling the shudder run through his muscles. He followed the words with his tongue, lapping at the salty taste of Roger’s skin.

He turned them so that Roger’s back was to the wall and fell to his knees, his mouth trailing a wet path down his torso towards his cock, and he took him full in his mouth, sucking hard at the length of it. Roger was thick and full in his mouth, hot and silky and already wet at the tip, as if waiting for him, waiting all this time. Rafa felt Roger’s fingers buried in his hair, urging him, begging him to take him in deeper. Rafa obliged, and watched Roger collapse back against the wall, his face crumpling in ecstasy as Rafa took him in whole, the finger and thumb of his right hand wrapping the base of Roger’s cock and his left cradling his balls, one finger wandering deeper behind, pressing up and bringing Roger closer to ever greater pleasure. He hummed his satisfaction and watched Roger collapse further still, till he was dragged by his hair once more to mouth-level, and Roger kicked off his shorts till they were cock to cock, wet and hard and slick and pushing at each other for friction, frantic and desperate in the half light of the shower stall.

Afterwards they stumbled through the tennis centre, their clothes dragged on haphazardly, their faces soft and smiling and their arms brushing against each other at every excuse. They drove in anticipatory silence in the back of Roger’s car to Rafa’s hotel room and barely made it to the bed before they fell together again, making love late into the night and drowsily into the next morning. Light broke across the city before they slept, and they slept in each other’s arms.

Rafa did not dream; he did not need to.

 

It was late morning when Rafa woke, sleep still cottoning his head and warm yellow sunlight falling through wooden slatted blinds across the sheets. A watery reflection undulated slowly on the ceiling. Roger still nestled against his right shoulder, an arm thrown across his chest, rising and falling with his slow breath. Dust danced in the stripes of light. He watched the motes, his mind swirling slowly. He held Roger close, spreading his palm open against the small of his back and feeling the heat of Roger’s skin soak into his own. He lay still in the quiet of the morning, half hoping that time would not move forward and he could stay still like this forever, and half impatient for the new day to start so he could walk out into the sunlight having been kissed by Roger, having made love with him. He wanted to cement this reality in his mind. It would have to be secret, he knew that much, but he wondered if the truth of it would be written on his face, on his body, in his eyes. It seemed impossible that his skin would not bear the imprint of Roger’s kisses for everyone to see.

And then the thought of that seeped coldly into his mind. For everyone to see; everyone to see his deepest feelings, this weight he had carried for so long. The idea became a knot in his stomach. He could not shake the thought that it was a weakness, this desire he had for Roger, this love that seemed to reduce him to nothing but one single point, one single focus. He could not bear it. He turned his face to Roger’s and watched him sleep. He looked so calm as he slept, his face relaxed, so different from the focus and concentration usually etched on his forehead. Rafa felt a distance as he watched him, despite their physical proximity. He felt out of place, all of a sudden, he felt out of joint. All his earlier tranquillity had fled.

He slid his arm from under Roger’s head and slipped quietly from the bed. He padded on the wooden floor over to the window, sunlight crossing his naked body in long stripes. He took the hotel robe from a chair by the window and pulled it on. The water outside the window glistened all the way across the bay to the city. The sunshine seemed harsh, now, no longer warm and yellow but too bright in his eyes.

Behind him, he heard Roger wake.

“Raf,” said Roger, sleepily. Rafa did not turn. “Rafa?” said Roger again.

Rafa glanced around at his tone. “Hi,” he said. He pressed his lips together in some tight approximation of a smile.

Roger pushed himself up in the bed, the sheets gathering around his waist. He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”

Rafa sighed. He still faced the window. “I think this is mistake,” he said. He felt the silence heavy behind him.

Roger shifted in the bed. Rafa glanced at him. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his head between his hands. “No,” he said. “It’s just the morning, you’re just…”

“No, Roger.” Rafa shook his head. “Is a mistake, no? How can we do this? No.”

“How can we do this?” Roger slid off the bed with the sheet wrapped around his waist. “I don’t know. We’ll see each other every tournament, you know? We can be together every tournament, sometimes maybe between. I don’t know, we’ll work it out. This is just the beginning.”

Rafa dropped his head, his eyes closed against the light. He rested his fingertips against the blinds. “That’s not what I mean,” he said, his voice low and heavy in his chest.

Roger shrugged. “Look, it’s all we can do, you know? For now.” He came around the bed, the sheet trailing behind him.

“No.” Rafa shook his head again, and looked up at Roger. “I can’t. I can’t do this. Not with you.”

Roger recoiled. “Not with me,” he echoed, half to himself, his mouth feeling out the words as if he had never heard them before. He looked around the room, then back at Rafa. His eyes were far from clear now. They had become opaque, guarded, and Rafa could see nothing. “Fine,” he said. He gathered his clothes in silence, pulled them on, and left the room. The sound of the door closing had a finality that struck Rafa like a physical blow. He left the window before he could watch Roger walk away and collapsed on his bed, curling up around the hollow pit in his stomach, burying his face in sheets that still smelled of Roger, that were still warm from his skin.


	2. Chapter 2

The clay court season was nothing but a grind. He almost lost his temper in front of the press at the Davis Cup, and had to pull back, calm himself down. His annoyance with the season to come was partly to do with the schedule, as he had said, but partly to do with what he expected to happen: each week, he and Roger would draw inexorably closer to the final, and at some point, despite Roger’s illness and his own fatigue, at some point they would meet. What had been his motivation, his drive, became the thing that held him back, tightened his shoulders as he practiced, weakened his legs as he ran.

Monte Carlo was the first. This year there were no publicity events that he and Roger had to take part in together, which he counted a blessing. He wondered if Roger had had anything to do with it. A word to the tournament directors from the world number one and any such events would be changed to suit him. Instead he went through the motions of putting on a tux and playing blackjack with Djokovic; to him it seemed a waste of time. During the tournament itself, Rafa played every match as if it was the last one, ignoring everything but matches and training. He knew he was subdued as he ate in the evenings with Rafa Maymo and Benito. He felt Toni’s eyes on him in the hotel room when he sat and drifted in and out of conversation. He reached the semifinals in something of a daze.

He faced Djokovic. Rafa felt his shoulders tense up before the match and tried to work it out as usual, jumping up and down, swinging his arms, but he could still feel it. He didn’t know if it was because of his last defeat at Indian Wells, or if it was because Roger was playing next, and the way Roger was playing this week, he would probably reach the final. Rafa never allowed himself to think beyond the next match, but the possibilities before him now were impossible to ignore. He did not know what it would be like to play Roger now, after what had happened in Miami. He berated himself inwardly for being such a fool as to let it happen in the first place. Overcome by his feelings; it seemed stupid, now, it seemed weak.

He lost the first set six-two. At a break down in the second, it seemed inconceivable that he should win. Sitting down between points, he felt the match slipping away. He stared grimly at the clay, the surface of which he was supposedly king. He felt none of that mastery now.

After that, the match trickled away. He could not hit, he could not control the ball. He skidded to far on the clay, or not far enough. Djokovic took the match in straight sets.

Roger beat Djokovic while Rafa was on a flight to Barcelona. Rafa saw the photos later, Roger holding aloft his second trophy of the year, relief in his eyes as the season began to come together. Rafa felt no such relief.

 

He won Barcelona, and he knew it was Roger’s absence easing out the tension in his shoulders. His first title of the season, but it came with a bitter taste in his mouth, as if the clay itself had turned sour. He shuffled uneasily during the trophy presentation, and wanted to spit the grit off his tongue and his teeth but he could not. He smiled more with relief than happiness, the relief of holding the weight of a trophy in his arms again.

Then one more flight, and he touched down in Rome. His father was there waiting for him.

He was not scheduled to play until Tuesday, so on Monday he took to the practice courts with a vengeance. Toni directed him on the court, though there was nothing in particular to work on. Rafa knew he needed to change his mind, not his game.

So did everyone else. That night, in the quiet after dinner, Rafa sat with his father on the balcony of his hotel suite, taking in the view across Rome at night. It was a quiet night, the occasional car passing on the street below the only sound to interrupt the silence, and the air hung warm and heavy over the rooftops.

“Is everything alright, Rafa?” his father asked.

Rafa remembered the last time he had been asked that question. The bedroom in Miami flooded back to him, Roger’s presence behind him, his own fear. He swallowed it down, aimed for a natural tone when he replied. “Sure, of course.” His voice sounded false to his own ears, but not a flicker of disbelief seemed to register in his father’s face.

“Good,” was all his father said, nodding slowly, his eyes fixed on some distant point. “Good. Because if anything was wrong, if anything was bothering you, it would be better to talk about it. I don’t mean for your game, Rafa.” He turned to his son. “I mean for you, no?”

Rafa looked down, right leg crossed over his left knee, and his hands resting on his calf. He felt his forehead crease into a sullen frown, his father’s caring tone bringing out the child in him. His father simply sat and watched the city, the glow of streetlights rising like a dome into the sky.

Rafa felt the desire to talk about Roger rise like pressure in his chest, as if it could physically burst out of him. He cast about for the words but found none. He had to measure his breath, in and out, and felt his heart beat against his ribcage.

“I know you,” said his father quietly, as if to the city and not to the boy beside him. “I know you keep these things inside. And that’s okay, that’s who you are. But Rafa, remember that it is also okay for people to see who you are underneath that, now and then. It’s a strength, not a weakness.”

The words hung in the air between them, but Rafa had no reply. He glanced up at his father, who had once more turned to look at him. He nodded quickly, his gaze once again fixed on his own hands, knuckles white where he gripped his own calf. When he moved his fingers, they left white marks on his skin.

His father nodded once more and then, placing his hands on his knees, stood up and stretched out his back. He took one more assessment of the night and laid a hand on his son’s shoulder before turning and stepping inside. The door slid shut behind him. Rafa remained on the balcony for some time with his thoughts, insofar as he could disentangle them.

 

Though he reached no conclusion, something seemed to loosen inside him. He reached the Rome semifinals with a rising sense of certainty. He felt his team relax around him, no longer concerned, no longer glancing at him when they thought he was not looking. And so, on court against Davydenko in the semifinal, he felt invincible. Every touch was right, every shot hit its mark, and he walked off court victorious less than two hours after he walked on.

Roger lost his semifinal. Rafa was not watching. Toni told him when he returned to the hotel after dinner. He shrugged and turned away. Later, alone in bed, he could not choose between relief and disappointment.

He beat David Ferrer in three sets, the second set lost in a tiebreak. Holding up his second trophy of the year was an experience far better than the first; it was exciting, exhilarating. The roar of the crowds echoed in his ears, and in amongst all the faces he found that of his father, and felt his heart expand. He smiled and laughed his way through the trophy presentation and well after that into the evening. Dinner that night was jubilant, a celebration of a season going well, but to him it felt like a celebration of more than that. He did not question it or think too much about it, just let the happiness settle in his chest, and smiled at his team around the restaurant table.

 

He flew to Hamburg in the morning. After three solid weeks of tournaments, he expected to feel tired, but he did not. Yes, there was an ache in his muscles now and then, in his bones, but his spirit remained unflagging. He could gain points in Hamburg, the ones he lost in Monte Carlo; he could win his third title of the year.

Hamburg was still cool at this time of year. Another Tuesday start, another Monday spent on the practice court with Toni. Rafa felt focused, his concentration sharpened to a point. Every ball he hit bounced exactly where he wanted, every shot hit where he aimed it. Time on the practice court was time spent consolidating his confidence.

He passed Roger on his way back to the locker room. His smile faded when he saw the look on his face, a look somewhere between hurt and anger and resignation that flickered in his features only momentarily, but long enough. Rafa dropped his head and, when he reached the locker room, sat on the bench for some time, his chin resting on a towel in his hands, before he roused himself to shower and change.

The week passed match by match, and Rafa still felt invincible. Not a set dropped all week to the final. He was relaxed and genial in the press room, less irritated at the schedule, less impatient with answering the same questions over and over. The only times he felt uncomfortable was when Roger came up as a subject. Who was his main rival on clay? “For me, is Roger, no?” Who did he expect to meet in the final? A shrug, and, “I don’t think about the final yet”; and then, when pushed, “Roger, I think, no?” Did he think that Roger could get to the final, given his recent illness? “Yes.” And so it went. When Roger himself was around, Rafa felt his breath quicken and his skin tingle, but he never caught Roger’s eye. Roger always seemed to be deep in conversation with Mirka or Jose or anyone else who happened to be in his company.

He usually paid scant attention to the sections of the draw not directly his concern so as not to split his focus, but now in Hamburg he found himself watching the top half more closely than the bottom. Roger and he kept pace day by day and match by match. Roger was winning most of his matches without difficulty, and when faced with a challenge he rose to it with ease. Rafa watched the matches with Toni, telling himself that it was to prepare for possibly playing Roger in the final, and failing entirely to convince himself. He found his eyes wandering over the shape of Roger’s body; the slim arms, the broad shoulders, the curve of his neck, and suddenly he could smell the sheets of his Miami hotel room, and images flashed through his mind: Roger’s mouth, open and panting, his thumb in Rafa’s mouth, their legs entangled, their bodies slick with sweat. He assiduously hid these thoughts from his uncle, though now and then he thought he felt his father’s eyes on him, only to find, when he turned to see, that his father was looking somewhere else altogether.

He did not see Roger on the day of the semifinals, though they both ended the day victorious. Rafa ate early that evening, and intended to go straight to his hotel room to sleep well in preparation for the day ahead. Instead, at that time of the evening when the hotel was at its quietest, when most guests were out in the city, he found himself wandering softly lit corridors, his trainers sinking into the plush carpet while the blandly pleasant smell of the hotel suffused his nostrils. He found that he could not lie to himself and pretend to be wandering aimlessly; he knew Roger’s suite, and made his way there slowly but deliberately. He did not expect, however, to find anyone in, so when he knocked it was a surprise that Mirka opened the door.

She smiled, her cheeks dimpling, and stood back to allow him into the room. He hesitated, though; he had not calculated his route beyond the doorway. Roger stood inside the room, half turned around towards him, three or four plastic-wrapped rackets in his hands. He held Rafa’s gaze for just a moment before resuming the task of packing them into his racket bag.

“Hi,” he said curtly, though his voice was not cold.

Rafa glanced once more at Mirka, who beckoned him inside with reassuring nod, her hand on his arm. “Hey, Rafa,” she said to him. She was welcoming and warm, and Rafa felt thrown into confusion. She closed the door softly behind him and looked from one of them to the other. Roger had finished packing his rackets and stood now turned towards them. He and Mirka seemed to hold silent conference for a moment, their eyes locked, before she nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I’ve got to go…” she trailed away, shrugging and smiling at Rafa. Then she slipped into the bedroom, one more meaningful glance at Roger before she left.

Rafa suddenly felt the weight of her absence, of being alone in the room with Roger. Roger stood, the window behind him framing him in black, punctuated by the city lights. His arms were crossed and his face was blank, nothing accusatory and nothing forgiving visible on his countenance. Rafa breathed deeply.

“Hi,” he said, finally, a delayed reply. Roger did not react. Rafa searched for words, but found none; he cast about the room with his eyes, and leaned a hand on the back of a Bauhaus chair by the dining table.

“What are you doing here, Rafa?” said Roger. It was the neutrality of his voice that struck Rafa hardest.

“I want to say you that…” he said, his voice cracking before he could reach the end of the sentence. “I want to say you that I made mistake.” Rafa saw a flicker of something in Roger’s eyes, but could not name it.

“You already said that,” said Roger, coolly. “You said that in Miami.” He looked away, flicked his hair back behind his ear.

“No,” said Rafa. “Is not what I mean, no?” He took a step towards Roger, unconsciously, stopping himself when he realised. He glanced nervously at the door through which Mirka had vanished. Roger followed his eyes, and for the first time Rafa saw something soften in his face.

“Mirka sleeps there, with Reto,” said Roger. Then he pointed to a door on the opposite side of the room. “I sleep there.” He smiled wryly. “Alone. You didn’t think I was that much of a bastard, did you?”

Rafa exhaled, clearing his head. He shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t know,” he said.

Roger regarded him for a moment. “Anyway,” he said, his face once more serious and unreadable. “That had nothing to do with it.”

Rafa tried to quell the confusion in his mind. It seemed to him odd that facing Roger across a net brought focus and determination, but facing him now across the living room of a hotel suite sent his mind into turmoil and his body into a state of heightened anticipation. He could feel Roger’s proximity in his skin, could judge the distance between them by the charge he felt in his veins. He cleared his throat. “I…” he began, without any idea how to continue. “I scared. I was scared,” he said.

Roger watched him but said nothing.

“I feel…” Rafa continued searching for words, the animation of his hands reflecting the surge of feelings within. “I feel too open, no? I think, people will see me. And I scared.”

“Scared that people will see us? You and me?” asked Roger.

Rafa shook his head, impatient at his own inarticulacy. “I mean, see me.” He gestured to his chest, to his heart. And at that moment, he saw comprehension dawn on Roger’s face.

Roger took a step forward, closing the gap between them. He looked into Rafa’s eyes for a long moment. Then he spoke. “You’re an idiot.”

It was unexpected. Rafa raised an eyebrow.

Roger continued. “You made me think I had it all wrong, that I pushed you, that you regretted ever…”

“No, no, Rogi,” said Rafa, tenderly. He placed a hand on Roger’s arm, but felt no acquiescence and drew it back. “I know I mess things up, I don’t say things. I’m sorry.”

Roger shook his head, exasperated. “I can’t believe you make me think that.”

Again Rafa felt a pressure building up inside his chest, he felt the words inside but could not speak them. And so, instead, he turned them into action: he took Roger’s face in his hands and kissed him. Roger was at first recalcitrant, but then Rafa felt him melt against him and soon the kiss became deep and full. He allowed everything he felt to well up into that kiss; his regret, his desire, his love. And then, as he felt Roger respond, his happiness, the bone-deep sense of belonging he felt when Roger was close.

Eventually they drew back. Roger’s eyes were soft, now, and he smiled. “You really are an idiot,” he said, but this time with such affection that Rafa had to laugh.

“I know,” he said. One hand was placed on the small of Roger’s back, as if holding him in place, and with the thumb of the other he traced the contours of Roger’s face. “It’s late,” he murmured. “I should go.”

Roger nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “But I’m glad you came by.”

“I see you tomorrow,” said Rafa. He drew back from Roger, stepped backwards towards the door, his gaze still fixed on Roger’s.

“Yeah,” replied Roger. “And Rafa?”

Rafa stopped. “Sí?”

“See you after the match, too, yes?”

Rafa smiled. “Yes,” he said. He saw the promise in Roger’s eyes, felt his own eyes respond. And, still smiling, he turned and left the room.

The smile did not leave his face even as he slept.

 

Rafa won the match, but later, as they lay in Roger’s bed, the result was of no concern. Rafa was fully engaged in cataloguing the tastes of Roger’s body and the sounds he made when Rafa kissed every inch, and Roger was similarly focused. This occasion was far less urgent than the last. They allowed time for languorous investigation and caress, they murmured to each other and now and then laughed softly, their faces dimly visible in the low light of the city seeping through the window drapes. Roger traced the shapes of Rafa’s body with his fingertips, and Rafa whispered words against Roger’s skin, all the words that had been locked inside for too long.

Roger kissed his way down Rafa’s chest, slowly, each kiss a succulent reminder of his desire. Rafa felt his mouth open and hot, inching down his body, covering his chest, grazing his sensitised nipples with his teeth, sucking and licking until small, desperate noises escaped from Rafa’s lips. His breathing hitched in anticipation and his body was utterly languid under Roger’s touch.

“Don’t run away this time,” whispered Roger against his stomach.

Rafa shook his head, the breath of Roger’s words tingling against his skin. “I no gonna run anywhere,” he said. He buried his fingers into Roger’s hair, cradling his head, running a thumb along the curve of his cheekbone. “I stay with you.”

He felt Roger’s smile against his abdomen, and felt his tongue dipping into his navel. His cock was full and hard, pressed against Roger’s chest. Roger dipped lower and ran his tongue over the head, swirled it in his mouth, and Rafa inhaled sharply and lifted up off the mattress, begging Roger to take in more. Roger pushed his hips down, frustratingly, and Rafa tried to stay still as Roger licked up the shaft of his cock with the flat of his tongue. Rafa ached with impatience and yet wanted to feel more of this delicious pleasure, this drawn-out crescendo that Rogi was eking from his body.

And then Roger took him into his mouth, his fingers encircling the base of his cock, and sucked slowly up the shaft. Rafa’s heels dug into the mattress and he twisted his fists in the sheets with the effort not to thrust into Roger’s mouth. Roger kept up this excruciatingly slow pace for some time, till Rafa was whimpering incoherently, Spanish and English jumbled up in the words that escaped his lips. “Rogi,” he managed to say. “Please!”

Maddeningly, his entreaty had the opposite effect to that he intended. Roger took away his mouth.

“You made me wait,” he said. “Now it’s your turn.” Rafa groaned.

Roger shifted until Rafa’s thighs were slung over his shoulders, his arms wrapped around so that he could take Rafa’s cock in his hand. While he returned to his agonisingly slow pace, jacking Rafa off with his fist, he nuzzled lower, sucking gently on his balls, teasing and licking, then spreading his legs wider and higher until Rafa felt obscene and delicious and insanely aroused.

Rafa opened his eyes and saw Roger’s face pressed between his legs, Roger’s slim fingers wrapped around his cock, Roger’s eyes closed as if savouring every taste on his tongue, and he had to cry out loud with the sensations he felt ripple through his entire body. Roger opened his eyes at the sound and they were dark and full of promise, and Rafa saw his cheeks rise into a wicked smile just before he felt the swipe of Roger’s tongue over his opening. He gasped. It felt slick and wet and tingling, and he had to throw his head back against the pillow as his hips pressed forward, aching for that feeling again, begging for more. Roger obliged.

After that, Rafa was lost. Roger’s wet, clever tongue pressed inside him, and Roger’s long, deft fingers kept pumping his cock until he could no longer think or speak or do anything but ride the sensation, the up and down, in and out build of pleasure in his groin. His hips kept time with Roger’s pace, his fists twisted into the sheets and his toes curling and uncurling against Roger’s back. He had never felt more open before, never felt quite so exposed. He did not care.

And then Roger’s tongue was gone. Rafa whimpered at the loss, till he felt Roger’s long, slicked finger work its way inside, and when he found a particular spot, Rafa gasped, his vision went white, and he came in spurts all over his stomach. Roger worked him through his orgasm, letting him ride it out, his voice mangled in his throat as he cried out. His whole body was one single contraction of pleasure, his breath caught in his lungs and his eyes screwed shut, until he came down, his breath returning, his body sinking into the mattress while he whimpered at the aftershocks. His fingers unwound themselves from the sheets and he found Roger’s face by touch, his eyes still too heavy to open.

“Rogi,” he gasped, holding Roger against him, his come sticky between them. He buried his face in Roger’s hair. “Rogi,” he said again. It was all he found he could say.

After a while, when Rafa could let go and Roger could reach for a towel, Roger cleaned them up and then found his place once more wrapped in Rafa’s arms. They slept wound together like that, hot and sweaty. Now and then Rafa woke up to the feeling of Roger’s breath on his chest, his leg across his thighs, and he pulled him closer and went back to sleep.

 

It was bright when Rafa finally woke up properly. He lay for a moment, Roger still asleep against his chest, watching the light fall through the half-drawn curtains of the hotel room. He wrapped both his arms around Roger, a deep happiness settling deep in his chest that this time would be so different from last. He would not get out of bed before Roger awoke, and he might not leave even then.

And then it struck him. His father, his uncle, Carlos Costa, Rafa Maymo and Benito would all expect to find him in his room; they might look for him there. His absence would be difficult to explain.

“Rogi,” he whispered. “Rogi.” He shook Roger gently, watching his eyes screw up, half awake and already objecting to the morning. “Rogi, I must go,” said Rafa.

Rogi opened his eyes. “What?” he said. “Again?”

Rafa laughed. “No, no like that.”

Roger pushed himself up on one elbow. “You have to go? Why?”

Rafa shrugged. “My team. They gonna be looking for me.”

“So text them,” said Roger. “Tell them you’ll be there later.”

“But they gonna know I not there, they ask where am I,” said Rafa. He went to sit up, pushing down the sheet, but Roger put a hand on his chest and prevented him.

“Wait, wait,” he said. He looked half puzzled, half amused. He left his hand resting on Rafa’s chest. “So tell them you were here.”

Rafa stared at him. The bed was warm and tempting, and Roger’s hair was deliciously mussed, a few strands still sticking to his temple where he had been lying on Rafa’s arm. But it was not enough. “No,” he managed to say. “How can I say I here? I no gonna tell them.”

Roger stared at him for a moment, the amusement draining from his face. “You’re not going to tell them?” he asked.

Rafa shook his head. “No,” he said. “Just you and me.” He felt restless, he had to move. He knew that Toni would wake up soon, and would call his room to wake him up to pack before their flight. He sat up, Roger’s hand falling from his chest, and got out of bed.

“So we will be secret?” asked Roger. He sat back against the pillows, the sheets crumpling around his waist. “You’ll lie to them to come and see me?”

Rafa found his pants and pulled them on, throwing an annoyed glance back at Roger. “Is not lying,” he said. “Is just, this is not for them, no?” He turned to face Roger, buttoning up his jeans. He let his eyes linger on Roger’s body, his easy, lithe musculature, his broad shoulders, his elegant hands. “I want you just for me.”

Roger sighed, a smile suggesting itself on his mouth. “Well,” he said, looking away and then back to Rafa. His smile spread. “How can I argue with that?”

Rafa gazed at him. He felt peaceful, in this moment; he felt that he did not need to be touching Roger to know he was close. There was something between them, a feeling, an energy, and he could walk out of this room now and keep Roger with him, inside. And no one need see it but him.

 

The rain kept him occupied in Roland Garros. The site smelled like fresh earth, earth that was too wet from the rain. He sat for two days in the locker room, energy coursing through his veins with nowhere to go. The locker room was crowded and noisy for these first few days of the tournament and he felt his nerves fray and his frustration build, and he stalked around his corner of the room with glowering eyes. He saw Roger briefly as he came and went, but they did not speak. It seemed to Rafa that anything he could say to Roger now had to be whispered under sheets, spoken quietly behind locked doors. He could not imagine what they might say in a room full of men. Roger seemed to understand, and when he passed by offered only a greeting and a fleeting touch of his fingertips, nothing more, not out here.

And though they were staying in the same hotel, they did not see much of each other there either. The George V was vast, with wings stretching out on either side facing each other across a central courtyard, and they occupied opposing suites. Perhaps, now and then, in the fall of the evening, Rafa happened to look out of the window to catch a glimpse of Roger standing in his, outlined in the golden glow of soft lamps; they held each others’ gazes across the courtyard, but nothing more.

And then, on the second Monday, just before his birthday, Xisca arrived.

She arrived late, just before they left the hotel for Restaurante Napolitano. The others had returned to their rooms to get ready to leave when she knocked at the door. He thought it was Benito having forgotten something, so he opened the door already laughing. He stopped when he saw her. She looked the same as she always had, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, and a belt around her slim waist. Her eyes, though, were sadder.

“Hi, Rafa,” she said, and there was something apologetic in her voice.

“Hey,” he said. He stood back to let her into the room. Her arrival was so unexpected that he found himself standing still, staring at her, the door swinging to a close behind him.

She held his gaze for a moment, before shrugging and vaguely smiling. “I came because…” She sighed. “I don’t know why I came.”

He walked around her as if she was surrounded by some kind of field he could not or did not want to enter.

“You have no luggage,” he said to her. It seemed a silly thing to say once he had said it.

She shook her head. “I took another room,” she said. “I didn’t expect…” The sentence faded on her lips. “I just wanted to come and see you. It’s your birthday tomorrow, and you’re playing so well. I wanted to be here.”

He said nothing to that. Through the window he could see that the lights in Roger’s suite were on, but he saw no dark shapes in the room. The bluish flicker of a television screen was the only clue that the suite might be currently inhabited. Rafa turned back to Xisca.

“We’re going to dinner,” he said flatly. “You should come.”

She bit her lip. “You’re not annoyed that I came?”

Something about her, some kind of vulnerability coupled with the determination that could bring her so far for him, made him suddenly full of regret, and he felt a warm surge of affection. “No, no, not at all,” he assured her. His face broke into a smile.

She smiled in return and suddenly his arms were full of her, her familiar shape against his body, the smell of her hair, the feel of her small hands on his back, and he hugged her, lifting her up against him. “I’m glad you came,” he whispered into her ear.

She might have kissed him when he put her down, except that the feeling of a gaze on his back drew his eyes once more towards the window. He did not see Roger, but he saw his shadow as he walked away.

Rafa was subdued at dinner. He did not dare text Roger, because he did not know what he might have seen. He did not even know what he felt: every time he thought of Xisca with fondness, he felt that he betrayed Roger. And yet there was something comforting in her presence, something familiar. He ate slowly, partaking little in the general chatter around the table. He was grateful for Rafa Maymo, who kept Xisca in conversation and covered up his silence.

He could not deny, when they returned to the hotel, that there was some part of him that knew it would be easy with Xisca. It would be expected. He would not have to hide. The idea was attractive, and when she got out of the elevator a few floors before him, he almost, almost reached out his hand and asked her to stay.

 

He woke up with guilt settled deep in his belly. The fact that it was his birthday seemed to compound the sensation. He lay staring at the ornate cornice of the ceiling, wondering if, across the courtyard, Roger was doing similar. All that time, he thought, all that time between Miami and Hamburg, he had put Roger through uncertainty and anguish. And now he had done it again. He resolved to ask Xisca to leave this morning, even before his birthday celebrations. He could not do this to Roger again.

She took it calmly. Her lip did not tremble, she did not ask for any favours. She stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and nodded understandingly as he explained that they were over, they had been since New York. She did not mention Carlos Moya, for which he was grateful. He brushed her shoulder with his palm as he left, but did not get any closer. He left her to her packing and asked Benito to arrange a flight and a car to the airport.

No one asked any questions.

 

The day was a busy one. His match was not long, but he had the usual birthday celebrations afterwards with a cake even more ornate than last year’s. He wondered what the cake might look like next year, and the year after, these impossible feats of confectionary each trying to outdo the last. Perhaps if he lost he would not get a cake next year. He would not mind that at all.

He did not have time to call Roger till he got to the restaurant, and in the event, he spent little time with his team celebrating his own birthday and spent an hour, perhaps more, sitting outside in the sunshine on the phone to Roger. Roger seemed distant at first, but Rafa told him everything, told him that Xisca had visited, that he had asked her to leave. Told him that he was at sea, that he hated secrecy but that things had to be so; that he waited for the tournament to be over, for Queen’s and Halle to be over, so that they could be together again. Roger murmured his agreement down the phone, his voice low, intimate, and even though he was far away, his presence settled itself over Rafa and instilled in him a sense of deep satisfaction. He knew then that any lingering feelings he might have had for Xisca were mere ghosts, nothing more.

 

It was hours after the final, after the press interviews and photoshoots, that Rafa returned to the George V. He told his team he would get ready for dinner; once they left, he slipped out of his room and followed the corridor that formed a vast U around the entire hotel. Its opulence was oppressive today, after the sunshine of the outdoors, and he walked quickly until he reached Roger’s suite. Then he calmed his breath, one hand braced on the doorframe, before knocking.

It was Roger who answered.

“Rafa,” he said, smiling and pulling Rafa into a hug. “I was just going to text you.”

Rafa wrapped his arms tightly around Roger. “I get here as fast as I can,” he said.

Roger drew back. “I know,” he said, still smiling.

Rafa shook his head, puzzled. “The match today,” he began, but Roger had already turned and was leading him into the living room of the suite.

“Don’t worry about it, Rafa,” he said, waving a hand. “You beat me. It’s over. I’m over it.” Rafa leaned against the living room wall, looking at Roger. He was dressed casually, a Nike hoodie over jeans, and yet somehow he fit into this room, into this scale and decoration. He shrugged. “You want a beer or something?”

Rafa half laughed. “No, gracias. I gonna go to dinner.”

“Sure, okay,” said Roger. He looked at Rafa, holding his gaze. “It really is fine, you know.”

Rafa walked towards him and took him in his arms. He kissed him, gentle kisses, the press of lips and breath. “I think today make me feel worse than you.”

Roger grinned, holding Rafa’s face in his hands. “You won. You should never feel bad for winning.” He kissed Rafa, more deeply this time, and held him close. “You better go,” he said. “Your team will be waiting.”

Rafa nuzzled against him. “I won’t see you until Wimbledon,” he said, running his hands over Roger’s back.

“Come over later,” said Roger. “I can wait up.”

Rafa grinned against his cheek. “Okay,” he said. “I go quickly then, see you sooner.”

Roger laughed quietly and kissed him again. “See you,” he said, freeing Rafa from his arms.

Rafa glanced back as he left, throwing a last smile over his shoulder. Roger stood with his hands in his pockets, simply standing, and it took all the strength that Rafa had to leave the room.

 

The smell of grass had become intrinsic to this time of year, that deep green smell of sunshine after rain. Roger walked the All England Club with an air of sovereignty. The weight of five titles rested easily on his shoulders, lending a gravitas to his paces, a sense of self awareness to his presence. Crowds parted for him, eyes followed him wherever he went. Rafa watched him in the players’ lounge and the practice court, his gaze one of the many, but his the only one returned.

Roger came to Rafa’s house on middle Saturday; he knew they would both have time that evening, there would be no pressure to prepare for a match the next day. Rafa opened the door to him before he even rang the bell. He stood, dark hat pulled down over his eyes, though the monogram above the brim made anonymity unlikely. He had a jacket on against the cool English evening, and his shoulders were slightly hunched. A taxi pulled away from the gate of the house.

“Hey,” said Rafa, as Roger looked up at him and smiled. Roger stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Voices came from the living room, Feli showing Rafa Maymo how to perform some intricate move with the playstation controls, and Roger glanced in that direction briefly, but then his eyes came back to rest on Rafa’s.

“Hi,” he said.

They had not been so close in a week; it was as if electricity snapped between them, as if some magnetic force caused them to fall into each other, their mouths finding each other eyes closed and hands already grasping for purchase. Rafa did not notice that he pushed Roger’s hat to the ground.

“Mnh,” he said, pulling away, casting a wary look towards the door to the living room. “Not here, come on.” He took Roger’s hand and climbed the stairs quickly, taking two at a time. Roger stumbled to follow. “I’m going to bed, Toni!” he called down the stairs in Spanish. It was Feli who shouted back, but by then Rafa could not hear the words and did not care to clarify. He pulled Roger into his bedroom, shut the door and pressed Roger hard against it, their bodies flush all the way to the floor and their breathing heavy between them.

“I don’t want…” said Rafa, but Roger cut him off.

“I know,” he said, almost swallowing his own words as he kissed Rafa again, hands on either side of his face.

They pushed against each other, almost wrestling their way to the unmade bed, clothes and shoes discarded by the time Roger lay against Rafa across the rumpled sheets. Even then they contested dominance; Rafa rolled them over and pinned Roger to the mattress, his face buried against Roger’s shoulder, mouth eliciting sounds from Roger that he muffled with the palm of his hand. Their cocks were already slick between them. Rafa felt Roger bring the two of them together in his fist, and had to muffle his own groan by biting down on Roger’s shoulder. He heard a sharp intake of breath at the sensation and felt Roger’s cock jump against his own. Roger began to jerk them off together, slowly, and Rafa’s fingers slipped into his mouth. They moved together, hips thrusting gently, forehead to forehead, quietening each others’ gasps, and Rafa could feel the sensation build with each stroke of Roger’s hand. A sound on the stairs made them freeze; they fought all natural instinct and stilled as the footfalls passed nearby and retreated to a nearby bedroom. Roger grasped them then with extra urgency, and soon they came with their faces buried into each others’ necks, desperately repressing the desire to cry out as they felt the other fall apart.

They lay still, catching their breath, and after some time Rafa slid away and found a towel, wiping them both off before climbing properly into bed. Roger felt boneless in his arms, wrung out and heavy-lidded in the last of the English twilight that fell through the window.

“I missed you,” he said, sleepily.

“I miss you too, no?” whispered Rafa in reply, his face so close to Roger’s that he could feel his smile. He stroked Roger’s skin with his hand, finding the dip in the base of his spine, the line of his hip.

“Oh yes?” said Roger. “Then why do you avoid me in the locker room, hmm?” He was playfully accusatory, his own hands wandering now over Rafa’s skin, mapping again the shape of his shoulder blades, the strength of his arms.

Rafa smiled slowly. “I think, what if I can’t stop myself?” he said, aligning his mouth again with Roger’s shoulder, licking gently at the mark he had left. “I think, what if I have to bite?” Again that sharp breath, that tension through Roger’s body when his teeth came down against his flesh. Rafa laughed a little. “See?”

Roger sighed, his body once more melting against Rafa. “No, you know, I don’t see.” He smiled against the curve of Rafa’s arm wrapped around him. “You will have to show me again.”

Rafa did.

 

They woke early the next morning, the English dawn as early as its sunset was late. Roger grumbled to have to rise at that hour, but Rafa held him in the shower and his grumpiness dissolved with the soap lather. It was nearly seven when they tip-toed downstairs.

They found Roger’s hat neatly hanging on a hook by the front door.

 

He found himself practicing in the court next to Roger on the sunny Tuesday morning of the second week. Roger winked as he put down his racket bag, and Rafa missed a forehand. The day was a typical English midsummer day, the smell of sunshine and grass filling his senses, and all around the practice courts girls caught the sun while they cheered and kids held their oversized tennis balls, most already covered in scribbled signatures. Rafa ended his practice session with a game of foot tennis, which he lost. He blamed Rafa Maymo.

When he left the practice court with Carlos Costa’s son, he passed by Roger and his team. Roger’s hand lingered in his for half a second longer, and it sent a thrill down his spine. He barely knew how to conduct himself in public, lately. There were some moments, some insane moments, when he wanted to take Roger and kiss him and to hell with who saw.

 

He had to push these thoughts from his mind for the final, and he did. They did not see each other on the Saturday. All the longing he felt, all the desire was pushed down and quieted by his focus on the next day’s match. He lay in bed that night alone, one arm behind his head, allowing himself in these quiet moments to wonder if Roger too was lying alone in the dark, thinking of him.

 

He won. After two rain breaks, five sets and seven hours, he won. He tried to believe it while he sat waiting, but could not; he did not believe it until he saw Roger walk up first to accept his runner’s up trophy, heard him tell Sue Barker that he could not have lost to a better opponent. Rafa’s heart swelled.

And then it was his turn. The walk took forever and no time at all. They handed him the trophy, and there he was, Wimbledon Champion. Centre Court had all but descended into darkness, but the flash of cameras gleamed on its polished surface and surrounded the trophy like a glow. It was cool and heavy in his arms. He had lost his teams’ faces in the crowd, and all he heard were the cheers and applause, and all he saw was Roger. He made his speech in a daze.

They circled the court in opposite directions, and though Rafa could not see him, he could sense Roger’s passage through the crowds, hear the cheers as he passed, hear the photographers’ calls to look their way. He felt himself working his way back to Roger, and somewhere in his mind, away from the clamour of the moment, he suddenly realised that that had been the way for so long. The circle of the year, the arc of the season, the line of the hotel corridor, they all brought him back to Roger. He found himself at the bottom of the court, Roger beside him waving to the crowds, disappointment etched into the lines of his face. But when he turned to Rafa, he looked at him with pride.

He leaned in close so that the crowd did not overwhelm his voice. “It’s yours now, Rafa,” he said. “The trophy.” He ran his hand over Rafa’s head, brushed his cheek with a thumb.

Rafa nodded, his smile less broad now, more intimate, despite their surroundings. “Not so many times, I think,” he said. “Not five. Always yours, five, no?”

Roger shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just matters that your name is after mine.”

With that, Roger moved as if to go past him, but without thinking, Rafa placed his hand on Roger’s chest, preventing him from moving on. A flicker of uncertainty flashed across Roger’s face, followed by disbelief at whatever he saw in Rafa’s eyes. Rafa did not know what that was, but he felt a defiance welling within him, a certain elation, and felt his fingers curl until his hand was fisted in Roger’s shirt.

And then, in front of the media, in front of the crowds, in front of the world, Rafa kissed Roger Federer.

The sound in his ears might have been the crowd or the rush of blood or both together; it was overwhelming. He held on as if withstanding the wave by the clench of his fist and the press of his mouth; he let go with a subsidence, as the sound in his ears grew dimmer, and his eyes opened to Roger’s astonished face.

They stood like that in amazement, their eyes locked in the strobe of camera flashes, until Roger’s face broke out into a smile. “Rafa,” he said, his hand on Rafa’s arm, his fingers digging in, holding on. “You kissed me.”

Rafa began to laugh nervously, his eyes flickering to the photographers and the crowd. “Sí,” he said. He felt numb, paralysed, the cold reality after the surge of madness. But Roger’s eyes were bright and the roar of the crowd in his ears was deafening, and the fear seemed to pass. He held Roger against him with his free hand, his face buried in his neck, Roger murmuring nothings in his ear that he could barely hear for the cheering.

They left the court together, their shoulders jostling against each other, touches taken now that they no longer had to be stolen. Roger seemed to have forgotten his loss, and in truth, Rafa had almost forgotten his victory. It was a shared elation they felt as they made their way together back into the club.

Later, he could barely remember the first few moments when he met his family. They were waiting with Roger’s parents, and Mirka and Reto Staubli. His father wrapped his arms around him, then his mother. Then his sister, who hugged him and whispered, “I knew it.” He did not know if she meant Roger or the trophy. And then he found himself embraced by Lynette Federer, his back slapped by Robert. Mirka stood back, watching, smiling, holding Reto’s hand. Rafa found himself led in a daze towards the locker room, Benito filming him the whole way, Roger close beside him.

And though everyone was laughing, full of congratulations and knowing smiles, he could not wait to be away from the clamour and the cameras, to get through the Champions’ Ball, and to get to Roger’s room where they could be together, just the two of them.

 

Rafa awoke to the rustle of newspapers. The bed was warm and soft cotton, and Roger had opened the curtains, letting the bright light of a London morning fall across the rumpled bed. He was sitting up now, newspapers strewn all over the duvet.

He turned and looked down at Rafa. “You’re awake,” he said. “Sit up, sit up, look at these.”

Rafa rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He pushed himself up against the plump white pillows, his muscles aching a little when he moved. He stretched and yawned, and draped himself over Roger’s shoulder. “What is it?” he asked.

Roger didn’t answer, but held up the front page of the Times. The photograph covered much of the top half of the page. Rafa, the Wimbledon trophy hugged in one arm and Roger in the other, their mouths pressed together in a kiss. The photograph caught a moment of such tenderness that it almost took Rafa’s breath away. His arm tightened around Roger’s body.

“I can’t believe…” he said, trailing away as he gazed at the photo.

Roger kissed his cheek. “Me neither,” he said wryly. “You told them everything in your presser.”

“Not everything,” said Rafa. He leafed through the other newspapers on the bed. “I tell them that we are together, that’s all.” Every paper had a photo of that moment, that kiss.

“Look, here it says this is why I couldn’t beat you.” Roger held up one page of three-inch-high headlines. Rafa snorted. “And here it says that they knew all the time.” Rafa laughed at that one. “Here,” said Roger. “What does this one say?” He held out the sports section of El Pais.

Rafa read quickly through the article. “Most about the match,” he said. “Also says, obviously very good friends.”

Roger laughed. “In Switzerland they are saying it’s the reason I lost.” He sighed and shook his head.

Rafa lay back against the pillows. “Is okay with you, yes?” he said, his fingers on the smooth skin of Roger’s back. “I just feel… I wanted to kiss you. I don’t care other people. I don’t think about what they say.”

Roger turned to look at him. He smiled, his eyes dark and knowing. “It’s okay with me. It was always okay with me, Rafa.” He lay back into the curve of Rafa’s arm. “They will say stupid things, you know, they’ll say I can’t beat you or you can’t beat me. Doesn’t change anything, what they say.”

Rafa turned towards him, wrapped around him under the covers. “No,” he said. “We still play unbelievable tennis, no? Just, afterwards, this.” He kissed Roger gently, running his fingertips over his chest. Roger murmured his agreement against Rafa’s mouth.

“When are you leaving for Stuttgart?” asked Roger, pulling Rafa close against him. Newspapers rustled as they lay back down on the bed, Rafa leaning on his elbows, their bodies pressed together, hot and already aroused.

“I no gonna play Stuttgart,” said Rafa. “Too tired, no? I tell Toni last night.”

Roger grinned. “Good,” he said, lifting his mouth to Rafa’s. “Good decision. No rush.”

Rafa shook his head, smiling. “No rush,” he said, pressing Roger down into the bed with the weight of his body. His hips moved in shallow circles and he held Roger’s hands on either side of his head.

They kissed slowly, their bodies melting into each other in the warmth of the bed. The duvet was heavy with newspapers but they were already too engrossed to stop and move them. It was a morning for long, lingering kisses, soft moans and gently wandering hands. Roger felt soft and pliable under Rafa’s body, his legs wrapping around Rafa’s thighs as his hands roamed down Rafa’s back, following the curve of his ass. He pulled Rafa closer as he spread his legs, and Rafa gasped when Roger shifted and his cock was snug against Roger’s ass.

“Rafa,” whispered Roger, and he did not have to say anything more. Rafa reached for the lube in the drawer by the bedside and slicked up his fingers; he found Roger’s opening and soon had him alternating between almost laughing at Rafa’s teasing fingertips and moaning as his knuckles penetrated muscle, loosening him up. Rafa found the spot that sent shivers through Roger’s body and watched as he gasped at the sensation. Then he found it again and again and again, till Roger was pushing up against him, begging for more. Rafa removed his fingers and gently pushed himself inside.

He took it slowly. Roger’s legs were wrapped around his waist, enclosing him in warmth, strong thighs holding on tightly, bringing their bodies together with every thrust. Roger’s eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, his breath catching in moans that seemed to emanate from deep within. Rafa kissed him deeply, penetrating him with tongue and cock, surrounded by him and lost in him. His Roger, the man he had dreamed of, the man the entire world now knew was his. That thought made him bury himself deeper, and Roger cried out into his mouth. Sweat slicked their bodies and Roger’s cock was hot and hard against his stomach, caught in the friction of their movement. Roger began to urge him to move faster, his heels digging into Rafa’s ass, and Rafa acquiesced. He kept kissing Roger, kept moaning into his mouth, lost in the feeling and taste and smell of him. His orgasm built slowly low down in his body, his skin electrified to every touch, his hips thrusting hard now, and Roger seemed to lose it underneath him, his cries louder now, his body becoming taut and suddenly shaking into orgasm, coming in the sweat-slicked space between them. Rafa felt Roger’s muscles contract around him and pull him over the edge, crying out, suspended in that pulsing moment while he came deep inside Roger, till he fell, spent and grateful into his arms.

They lay panting in their shared heat, Roger’s fingers tracing shapes over Rafa’s skin sending aftershocks coursing through his veins. Rafa fell to the side, still half-draped over Roger’s body, his breath slow and deep and his muscles completely relaxed.

“Rogi,” he whispered hoarsely.

Roger turned his head sleepily, his eyes half open under heavy lids. “Yes, Rafa?” he murmured in reply.

Rafa nuzzled against him. “Nothing,” he said, wrapping himself closer around Roger, forgetting about the come and sweat between them. He could stay cocooned here forever.

Rafa felt Roger smile. “I know,” he said. They said nothing more, but dozed off in each other’s arms, the bed still strewn with pictures of that one moment when Rafa kissed Roger in front of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> In part 1, all match/tournament results are as they happened. In part 2, some are be changed, because sometimes the boys simply will not bow to narrative requirement.  
> Thank yous: best_of_five worked like a beta machine for this one! This is for her. ♥ ♥


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